


Cucumber Sandwiches and Instant Coffee

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Poe Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 20:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8462581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: Ernest Hemingway had arrived at this dinner party with two reasonable goals: to win at whatever gloomy dining room game Poe could come up with and not be charmed by Oscar Wilde’s usual antics.  Both of these plans were doomed to fail, of course. Set immediately after the events of Episode/Ch. 11, with mild spoilers.





	

Ernest Hemingway had arrived at this dinner party with two reasonable goals: to win at whatever gloomy dining room game Poe could come up with and not be charmed by Oscar Wilde’s usual antics. Both of these plans were doomed to fail, of course. They were in Edgar Allen Poe’s house; romance and success were not frequent visitors there.

However, these appeared to be perfectly good objectives and had sounded so damn easy when he’d sat down at that dining table and looked at the other guests and their host. He was going to beat them all at their silly game, have a good time while doing so and manage not to have a scandalous dalliance with Oscar.  
It was odd how he always felt like he’d just escaped something potentially wonderful whenever he left the room that well-dressed, lilac tie-wearing author was currently located. It must be Wilde’s hair. It always looked ridiculously soft.  
Perhaps he’d spent too much time in the wilderness and caked in the dust of the desert so that his soul ached for a hot, healthy bath and good hair products instead of bathing himself in whisky. That must be it.

Well, winning the game stopped being a priority when people started dying right in front of them, dropping like birds from the sky at a shooting session in the grounds of a fine mansion.

He liked to think that he’d managed to survive due to his honed hunting instincts, fighting skills and sheer luck. He wasn’t entirely sure how the others managed to live this long, but it must have been some mixture of logic and intellect. But wherever he went, Wilde was always there, grinning and making jokes and eventually odd food puns at everyone.

When the police had taken away the murderers, Ernest found himself in the kitchen scouring the cupboards for some sort of edible food. He was poking a loaf of bread when Wilde came inside, leaning on the door frame before entering. Ernest kept his eyes resolutely on the bread loaf, and then on the slab of butter and block of hard cheese. He’d also found a kettle, which he’d filled with water and put on the stove. 

And since he was already stealing Poe’s food, he’d figured out that Poe wouldn’t mind if he borrowed some of the coffee he’d found in a large jar labeled ‘instant coffee: the truck driver’s best friend.’

The house was silent, as Poe was most likely still talking to one of the police officers that was meant to guard them until sunset. The police inspector had ordered them to stay in the house until the next day because of some sort of a safety protocol even if the guilty ones were already in handcuffs and on their way to the station in the armed police jeep. Well, Poe could also be writing or visiting his ravens. Who knew with that man?

“It is a shame that there was no actual dinner at this dinner party,” Wilde said, making his way towards what Ernest assumed was the vegetable drawer after humming and hawing at Poe’s tea selection.

Ernest shuddered at the thought of having a vegetable as a main dish instead of some sort of afterthought on the side of the dish beside the steak. Vegetables should be hidden in stews filled with meat if they had to be a part of the dish at all. He focused on gripping the bread knife and glanced at Wilde, who had made a delighted sound in the back of his throat.

The man had found a cucumber.

Ernest decided that the best course of action, since he’d finished all the booze he’d found in the house, was to cut the bread into slices. At least his hand was steady enough for that.

A glass of water appeared at his elbow as Wilde put a cutting board on the counter and found a knife. Ernest drank the water in one gulp, aware of what a truly colossal headache he was going to have in the morning.

“Been one hell of a night, Oscar,” Ernest said, cutting and buttering a fourth slice of bread and putting it along with the third one on a second plate which he slid towards the other man, who was delicately cutting the cucumber into translucent slices.

“Indeed,” Oscar said, glancing at him and nodding with a small smile when he saw the plate with the slices, “not something you forget in a hurry. Makes you rather glad to be alive.”

Ernest cut a generous slice of cheese and put it on top of his bread before pushing his second slice of bread on top of it, functionally making it a sandwich that could survive at least two days of rough travel through the Swiss Alps. Oscar was cutting the crusts off and making finger sandwiches.

“Narrowly escaping death has that affect,” Ernest said, pouring boiling water from the kettle into a mug already half filled with instant coffee. Oscar tapped on a delicate china teacup he’d presumably found in one of the cupboards. It had a raven motif and a teabag in it. Ernest poured the water, trying to keep his hand steady until Oscar nodded when the cup was halfway full. “Perhaps being reminded of mortality is good for you.”

They sat down at the small kitchen table with its modest lace-decorated cloth and began eating their sandwiches as their drinks cooled. The open window let in the night air and the sound of ravens on the roof. In the distance, they could hear Lenore talking to Poe about the soup being wasted.

“Did you find any dessert?” Hemingway heard himself ask as he drained the last of his coffee, closing his eyes as the grainy liquid coated his teeth. Oscar had spent more time searching for food when he’d been busy cutting the bread, after all.

“I’m sure we can come up with something,” Wilde said, with a smile that was decidedly wicked, “after all, we are two of the best literary minds in the world.”

Hemingway found himself returning the smile. It had been a night of impossibilities and intrigue, there was no sense in not going all in. They were both adventurous men, when all was said and done.

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” he said, looking at Wilde’s hand covering his own. Wilde nodded, his smile having widened considerably.

They stood up and headed out in search of a secluded and private room within the house where they wouldn’t be interrupted and closed the door behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> References to 'The Importance of Being Earnest' and 'The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber' are just there for fun.


End file.
